


death cures all ailments

by writtenFIRES



Series: Egotober 2017 [3]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Blood, Egotober, Gore, Manipulation, Panic Attack, Sanders Sides - Freeform, anti doesn't do a LOT so don't get excited or anything, idk it gets gruesome tho, implied suicide, implied? - Freeform, kind of????, suggested character death?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 21:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12262746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writtenFIRES/pseuds/writtenFIRES
Summary: Egotober Day 3: abandonment/Goretober Day 3: g͡l̡͡i̷t̷̵͠c̸͞h̴̨They͜ ͡don̶'t ͟wa͡nt̵ yo̡u.





	death cures all ailments

**Author's Note:**

> _dances to the beat of a thirteen hour shift and kills some people, maybe_
> 
> hey remember when i wrote that cute drabble, the first one? yeah.
> 
> also first go at writing a sanders side so hopefully he fits, even if this appearance is... really vague.

**They͜ ͡don̶'t ͟wa͡nt̵ yo̡u.**

Virgil's breaths were coming in shallow, rapid gasps. He could feel his lungs straining and stuttering in his chest as they tried desperately to keep up, to absorb the necessary oxygen. He was exhaling all of it too fast. There wasn't enough to go around, and his head was pounding, starved for air in a sea of it.

**Ţhey don͟'̵t҉ ne͡e̷d y͟ou.**

Pounding, throbbing, aching. It felt like there was a vice wrapped around his skull, squeezing tighter and tighter. He was shocked the top of his head hadn't popped like the top of a can, or an exploding bag of chips. His writhing, pulsing brain matter splattered all over the walls and posters of his room. His dark, dark, secluded room.

**Y̵oų'rȩ ̢a g̶̴̻͈̻͕̰͓̗̯͙̙̮̞̟̣͗̏̅͋͆͗̌̀͗ͥ̈̍ͅl̶̻̼͚͔͈̫͎̘̰̩̜̦͂͆͒͌̚͞i̛̤̣͖̯̜͍̤͎̪̣͎͔̰̓ͨͦͮ͛ͨ͗ͣ̊ͥ̈́ͬ́̄ͬ͠ͅt̜̺͙̱̺̥̦͈̟͈̩̥̘̬͇̬̰̖͛͐̄̄͌̀͑̕̕c̛͍̮̭̲͇͇͖̺̺̮̓̀̄̆̇̓ͫ̄̐̾̓̄̓̚h̸̴̢̢̹̭̯̺͕͕͕͉̮̬͚̞̟͊̊͊́̕ in ҉th͝e̶ ̵s̕y̸st̡em͜.**

For once he wished he wasn't alone. For once, he wished he had the others chattering away in his ear. Logan with his uptight rambling; Roman being flamboyant and spouting off insulting nicknames; sweet, sweet Patton who always had a smile and a quip for him. Thomas. Thomas... oh, no, he was panicking. If he was panicking, then Thomas-

**W̴ould ͡be̴ bett̵er ̛ǫff ̨w͞i̧t̢hǫu͞t ͘y̛ou͢r͢ exist̷e̢n̸ce.͞**

A sporadic, high-pitched giggle echoed around Virgil and his breath hitched, his pattern stuttering to an agonized halt. He couldn't breathe. _He couldn't breathe. **He needed to breathe.**_

**Fac̨e ̛it. You'r͏ę ̶a̴ņ unwa͡n̵te҉d̶ ͞a͠ddi͠ti̢o̧n.**

_No._

**An͏ u̢nne͟ce҉s͘s͞a͟r͝y ͞exte̷nsi͞on.͞**

_**No.** _

**Th̛e̶y͠'d͘ al̢l ̡b͠e̸ ̷bet̨t̨er ̛o̴ff̨ if yo͞u ͜d̡id̴n't ͠even e͏xis̸t.**

They... they probably would be.

**You̕ kn͝ow̛ it͟'͜s t̨rue҉. You ͜kn̸ow͠ ̡th͏e̶y̛ h̵a҉te̴ ͠y͞ou.͝ T͝h͡e̴y̶ desp̴ise͝ ̨y̵ǫư. T͠he̵y̕ d̷o͡͠ņ'̢͜t̷͝ ̡w̸͢a͘n͞t̸͟ ̵y̸̧͞o̷͟ų̷.̶͞**

They wouldn't. They couldn't. Who would want him? All he ever did was bring everyone down; hold Thomas back. Sure, he'd saved Thomas's neck a few times-

**Bu͜t ̷w͘e҉re͏ you̶ ̢rea̷ļly ̵ne̶eded ̨fo̢r t̵ha̷t͟?͝**

No... no, he wasn't. Surely, surely one of the others would have kept him safe. Hell, Logan was always doing his best to keep Thomas on the straight and narrow. And sure, Patton was _emotional_ , but he also served as Thomas's morality.

**The͞y̨ ̵ḑon͠'̴t n̸eed ͘y̢ou at҉ a͏l͞l.҉**

"They don't need me at all."

**Yo͟u̧'̕re n͜oth̸i͘n̡g b̨u͏t̢ ̸a ͠was̵te ͡ơf space.**

"I... am nothing."

**L̸͘͜et̵ ̸͟m̶͢͞e̷̸͝ in͝. ̕͏Lę̴t̸ ҉҉T̡h̢͜ǫ͝m͢͞a̷s ͏҉h̴̛av̴̨͟e̴ ̨͜͏som͡et͠hin̸͜g̡͡.͡**

"He needs something...."

**I̧͜͠ ͘c͜an̢͡ ͘d̢̕͠o̵ ̧̛b͘e͘ţ̶ter̷.̡͜ ̛͘I ̕caņ͢͜ ̷m͜͞aķ̴̢e͜ ̧h̸͜͜i̵͠m̡ be̷t͏t̕e̴̡͝r.**

"You are... better."

**Ş̷͘͜o̷͠ ͢͞͞͞l̛̛͞͞e̷̡t̡̕͠ m̢̢̻̻̣͖̦̱̗̬̘̟͉͈̍̄̽̔ͬ̅̾ͮ́̑͌̊̌̿ͭ̕͞͡ẻ͙̜̗̺̬̣̹͙̻̼̭̠͈̲̙̭̼͉ͥ̋̀͗̐ͧ̉ͮ̏ͯ̈̅ͪ̅͘͟͢ ̷͎̝̲̤̝̆ͦ̄̓̍͘͠͡i̢͓͉̬̫̜̳̺̥͇̊̾͌̒͂͑̈́͌̆̇͗̄̏̊ͧ͑̎͛͢͢ͅn̵̸̷̲̰̮̦̺̮͚͔̤̄̑͑ͯ́̓ͣ.̴̛̪̼̘̤͇͉̘̠̼̬͓̳͚̳̳͎̩̣̇ͣ̈́̄ͮͨ͐̎͐ͥ͐ͬ̑ͅ**

Virgil felt a gentle snap in his brain- or was it Thomas's? One way or another, he felt it, and heard it fizzle along his inner ear. The world turned on its axis and he went tumbling down into a sudden abyss. All he could hear was laughter. All he could see was a spot of burning green, and a grin filled with too many teeth.

**Say goodbye.**

Thomas choked. The panic attack had been so sudden, so out of the blue. He couldn't even place a reason, only huddle in a corner of his room and rock back and forth while he tried to breathe.

Yet suddenly, the shapes around him seemed to glitch, static buzzing in his ears and eyes burning. He gasped, rubbing at them, contemplating clawing as the burn heightened to a vicious sting. Tears that felt too hot and thick slithered down his cheeks in steady rivulets and he gagged, something invisible constricting at his throat. He scrabbled at it, ripping and tearing, worsening the paper thin cut that had formed.

There was red and red and red, and somewhere there was green, and nowhere there was anxiety.

**Author's Note:**

> In which we answer the question nobody asked: what if a certain chaos-loving glitch found out about Anxiety's _anxiety_ before the others did?


End file.
